


Tell You My Sins

by moonblossom



Series: The Devils of Hell's Kitchen [1]
Category: Constantine (TV), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Banter, Blind Character, Blow Job, Catholic Guilt, Church Sex, Hand Job, I sure as fuck am now, If I wasn't going to hell before, Improper use of holy water fount, M/M, Semi-Anonymous Sex, Strangers, pov - variable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blind Catholic vigilante and a jaded occult detective stumble across each other in the darkest corner of Hell's Kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell You My Sins

**Author's Note:**

> _It’s official. I am going to Hell. I may as well take as many of you along for the ride as I can. This started as a rather ridiculous cracky conversation on tumblr and just... escalated. I make no apologies. And yes, the title is taken from Hozier's Take Me To Church, which was the working title of this story but I decided it was too literal XD_
> 
>  
> 
> _Also, please note that the asterisks here are used to represent POV shifts, not time or location. I just couldn't find a more elegant way to do it that would work here on AO3._

John couldn’t remember how the fuck he’d ended up here. All he was aware of was that his head hurt like Hell, there was something in his hair that may or may not have been blood, and he’d somehow lost his trousers. And his pants. At least he still had his sodding coat. He patted himself down, hunting for a pack of smokes.

There was a quiet snicker from the depths of the shadow on the other side of the dark alley. He cocked his head and put the cigarette to his lips while fumbling for a lighter, but his hands came up empty.

“A couple of feet to your left, over by the dumpster.” The voice was surprisingly gentle, slightly amused, and tinged with a slight taint of what he assumed was local. All these fucking East Coast accents sounded the same to him.

He glanced over to where the voice had directed him and saw the dull gleam of his battered Zippo as it caught the orange haze of the street-lamps outside the alley. He bent to pick it up, only then remembering that he was sort of indecent. He stood up, trying to keep himself halfway decent. It wasn’t that he cared, really. He just didn’t want to give the poor bastard the wrong idea. Half-naked in a dirty trench coat, hiding in an alley like a fucking pervert… John was surprised the man was still sitting there, chuckling quietly, instead of screaming for help or trying to slug him.

He shuffled, wrapping his coat around himself, and the man at the end of the alley laughed again. "Something wrong?"

John grunted as he turned and lit the cigarette, his coat held loosely shut by the belt. "Other than the fact that I'm half-starkers in an alley and I can't quite recall how the bloody Hell I got here, no?"

There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the click of the Zippo, the sharp hiss of paper and tobacco catching fire. He inhaled deeply, almost groaning in pleasure as the nicotine hit his blood-stream.

"Naked, huh? Damn..." The man's voice still sounded amused, and almost wistful. John turned to look at him again as he stood, stepping into a small patch of light. That was when John understood why his nudity hadn't been an issue before. He'd known enough blind people to recognise it almost right away, but something about the man's blank gaze unsettled him. It was as if he could look right through John. He frowned, staring down at the Zippo in his hand. He flipped it over before looking back at the man. He was wearing dark, well-fitting clothing, like he'd been sneaking around. Which was utterly confusing, because how good could a sightless housebreaker really be? Was he putting John on, pretending to be blind to seem less threatening?

He was also utterly gorgeous, a distraction John most absolutely did not need to be dealing with right now.

"How'd you..." he gestured vaguely with the lighter, and then snorted at himself. "My lighter?"

"Heard it fall. Noisy. Also, there's something that sounds like fabric under the dumpster. Maybe your mysteriously disappearing clothes are there," he said quietly, laughter still decorating his voice.

Still unnerved by the man's sharp perceptions, John bent down and peered under the bin. His trousers and pants were, in fact, down there. He pondered that for a moment before shrugging. He'd been in far stranger situations before. He turned around and slipped into them, much to the amusement of the apparently-blind man.

He zipped up and turned back, wiping his hands on his coat before holding one out towards the man. He continued staring at John's face, utterly ignoring the hand. Interesting. Either he was truly blind and somehow very perceptive, or he was playing some sort of game. John shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"So, you usually spend Friday nights in dirty alleys chatting with strange men, or is this a one-off thing?"

The man grinned again, his teeth glinting in the darkness. His smile was lopsided and charming and John groaned inwardly. He didn't need this sort of distraction right now.

"You usually try to pick up strange blind men you find in alleys with cheesy lines like that?"

John sucked on the cigarette, staring down at the glowing cherry for a moment. "That depends. Is it working?" The nicotine was mercifully chasing his headache away, and he'd started to remember something vague about a... thing in the Hudson river. His brain reassured him that the... thing was no longer a concern.

The blind man laughed again. "Maybe. Do you have a name?"

"John Constantine."

"Why are you in New York City, John Constantine? No offence, but your accent doesn't exactly sound local, and this isn't the sort of place lost tourists end up."

"I think it's exactly the sort of place lost tourists end up, only usually they're cut into little bitty pieces first," John muttered as his cigarette sputtered and died. He tossed it to the dirty pavement and ground it under his heel. "I guess you could say I was here for work, and now I'm on vacation. Do you have a name, then?"

"Ma-- uh-- Mike." The man held his hand out and John reached for it, shaking it firmly.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," John's voice was wry. He was still deciding what to make of the strangely observant blind man hiding in a dark alley.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The alley was filled with the sounds of the two of them breathing, the gentle rustle of clothing as they stood there, sizing each other up. Eventually the blind man held up his hands.

"May I?" The man whose name most certainly was not Mike reached up and held his hands at a careful distance from John's face. John couldn't help but notice how delicate his fingers looked. Several were crooked, as if they'd been broken before, but they were long and dexterous, and the nails were surprisingly well-maintained. A quiet cough caught his attention and he realised he'd been staring at them for what was probably an inappropriate amount of time. He looked up and smiled sheepishly. Despite the man's apparent blindness, John felt as though he was staring straight into his own soul.

"Go on, then," John murmured. He was aiming for cocky but it came out ragged and needy. He closed his eyes as he felt unfamiliar fingers tracing his chin.

***

John Constantine smelled like sweat and tobacco and old parchment. He smelled like damp, decaying earth. Like ancient stone. He certainly didn't smell like he belonged in New York City. Honestly, he didn't smell like he belonged _anywhere_ , which was utterly infuriating. Matt couldn't tell anything about him, other than that he smoked, he was British, and his heart was pounding. He couldn't even tell if it was pounding due to nerves, or something else. He pushed that thought aside.

Biting his cheek against the pained hiss that threatened to escape, Matt reached up. He cupped John's - and really, he couldn't have come up with a better fake name? - face gently in his hands. His jaw was rough, at least a few days' stubble, and his cheekbones were sharp and defined. His nose was crooked, but in a way that felt endearing. His lips... dear God, his lips. Not particularly thick or full, and a little dry against Matt's fingertips, but so mobile and expressive. Smirking and moving under his fingers as he explored. Matt realised he was biting his own lip as he continued studying John's face. John's eyes fluttered closed under probing fingers; thin, vulnerable eyelids barely protecting him. There were crow's feet around his eyes, so he was a little older. Or he'd lived a rough life. Possibly both. The trust this man had in a blind stranger in an alley was a little disturbing, to be honest. His lashes were long and surprisingly soft. Matt ran his fingertips over them a few times, and John huffed out a funny little not-quite-laugh.

He could hear John's heart thrumming louder and quicker in his chest now, could hear the ragged hitch of his breath. What he still wasn't sure of was whether it was due to stress - and considering he'd woken up pantsless in an alley and was now being groped by a blind vigilante, Matt didn't particularly blame him there - or something else. Something Matt was feeling himself, but didn't want to examine too closely. At least it was distracting him from the bleeding gash over his ribs.

Slowly, he dragged his fingers along John's hairline, over his temple, back down to his jaw. John's breath ratcheted up another notch, dry and raspy. At this point there was no mistaking it. Matt suspected if he concentrated enough he'd hear an echo of the heartbeat further south in John's body, but he stopped himself. He chuckled quietly, wincing as it pulled the wound on his side. He'd have to get it looked at sooner or later, but right now he apparently had more interesting things to investigate. He just had to figure out how willing he was to explore whatever was happening.

He pulled back slightly, giving John room to pull away if he needed to. Matt found himself praying that he wouldn't. He let his hands slide into the rough, slightly tangled mess of John's hair, one hand cradling his head and the other cupping the back of his neck. He couldn't tell if John's eyes were open or closed at this point, but there would be no mistaking his intent, even if they couldn't see each other. He tilted his head, shifting until he could feel the heat from John's mouth against his.

He heard a sharp gasp, an intake of breath that stole his own air from him, and suddenly John's lips were against his. They were just as clever, just as wicked as they'd felt under Matt's fingertips. Possibly even more so. Matt moaned, parting his lips and inviting John's tongue in. John Constantine kissed like a man possessed, a man not afraid of eternal damnation. He was exactly what Matt needed right now, and Matt felt the internal fight draining out of him.

Matt slumped backwards against the wall, pulling John against him. John chased his lips, running his tongue along Matt's lower lip, sucking and nipping at it. Matt could hear both their hearts pound erratically, could feel the heat coming off John's cheeks. He tightened his grip on John's hair and swallowed the moan he let out.

And then John's hands found their way to Matt's sides, and Matt couldn't hold it in any more. He pulled away, breaking the kiss with a pained gasp. He couldn't see John's face, but he could imagine it. Eyes wide with shock, or possibly disappointment.

"You okay, mate? Sorry... I thought..." he stammered, and Matt chuckled to himself. He'd sounded so slick before, so cocksure, and here he was flustered and worried. It was almost sweet. He rushed to assuage him.

"Not you, I promise." he managed to gasp out, gripping his side. He could feel the hot, slick blood seeping out between his fingers. John gasped; he must have looked down at Matt's hand and seen it.

"Bollocks, why didn't you say something sooner?"

Matt shook his head and forced himself to stand straight. He pushed away from the wall and felt a solid, comforting arm wrap around him. There was nothing charged, nothing sexual about the touch now, and he wasn't sure whether to be grateful or disappointed. He gave in and leaned against John.

"I had no idea who you were. If you were friend or foe. I still don't, really."

John mumbled something incoherent and patted Matt's good side with his hand, acknowledging the fear. "Let's get you somewhere and get you cleaned up. You live around here?"

Matt shook his head. The guy seemed decent enough, considering he'd been found in an alley with no pants on, but Matt certainly wasn't ready to give up his address. Or the office's. Or anyone else's. John seemed to understand. He grunted again, and started guiding Matt towards the rushing sounds of the street.

"I know a place, come on."

***

John did his best to tamp down the arousal that was coursing through his body. Whatever this man's deal was, he needed help, and that was more of a priority than a quick snog in an alley. Out of the alley, in the bright and noisy street, it was easy to forget the moment they'd just shared. The sights and sounds and smells of midtown Manhattan assaulted him as he tried to get his bearings. He still couldn't figure out how trying to send a sea monster back from whence it came had resulted in him losing his clothes, but everything else seemed to be in order. He snorted quietly and felt not-Mike chuckling against him, despite the pain, despite not knowing why John had laughed in the first place.

He oriented himself and headed in the direction of the church he'd been holed up in earlier. It was always handy to know where the closest consecrated ground was, and the padre there was uncommonly patient and open-minded, all things considered. He also slept like a log in the little stone rectory, conveniently far from the main building.

Carefully, John led the man up the stairs and shoved open the heavy oak door. He frowned slightly, debating whether or not to find something to block it.

"Whoever did this, you think they'll come after you?" he asked quietly, helping still-absolutely-not-Mike over to one of the pews. As he sat, he craned his head up and around, as if taking in the surrounding architecture. John frowned. He'd pretty much decided the man wasn't playing at being blind, but now he was uncertain again.

He looked directly at John with that unnervingly blank gaze and shook his head, grinning slightly. "I _know_ they won't. Would it sound bold of me to throw out the old _you should see the other guy_ line?"

John laughed. Whatever this guy's story was, he found himself liking him more and more with every passing moment. Maybe once he got that wound patched up, they could get back to what they'd been doing earlier...

He knelt down in the aisle, resting back on his heels, and carefully reached out to peel the man's shirt away from the wound. As he did, the man winced again.

The light in the church was dim, only one dingy overhead fixture lit and about half the votives lit under Mary's watchful eye. But there was more than enough illumination to see the mottled tapestry of bruising and half-healed cuts that made up the man's torso. John couldn't contain the gasp that escaped him. He did his best to wipe the clotting blood from the man's ribs, but it was a lost cause.

The man laughed again as John stood, groaning against the ache in his knees.

"It's not what it looks like," he said. His voice was slightly self-deprecating, as if he knew how absurd he sounded.

"Underground fighting ring? BDSM thing? Underground BDSM fighting ring?"

The man shrugged and hissed as it pulled the wound again. "Something like that..."

Frowning, John rummaged through his pockets and found a mercifully clean handkerchief. He walked quickly to the fount and dipped it in. He heard a scandalised sound from over by the pew and looked back.

"Did you just wet something with the _holy water_?" The man sounded both offended and amused all at once, an impressive feat.

"Do you see any other water around here?" The words slipped out before John had a chance to shut himself up, and he cringed internally, but the other man just laughed again.

John squatted again, resting on the kneeler this time, thankful that at least not all Catholics insisted on excessive suffering during prayer. He lifted not-Mike's shirt again and as gently as he could, began wiping the dried blood off his torso. Under all the bruises and scrapes was an impressively fit chest, and John found himself tracing the planes of muscles with the damp cloth. He saw the man shiver, but couldn't tell if he was cold, or if it was something else.

The wound wasn't nearly as bad as it had seemed. It had started to close. Problem was, located on his ribs like that, it was bound to split open again if he wasn't careful. And John had figured out by now that whoever this man was, _careful_ likely wasn't part of his vocabulary.

"I don't suppose you've got a needle and thread handy?" He asked, and the man huffed quietly.

"No, but I know someone..." He slid a hand into the pocket of his slim black trousers - and bugger, how had John not noticed exactly how well-fitted they were? - and pulled out a package of butterfly closures. John reached out, taking them from him carefully. He tore the package open with his teeth and managed to pull them off the backing and seal the wound as tightly as he could. If John's hand lingered a little longer than necessary on the mottled marble skin of the man's rib cage, well who could blame him?

"That'll do until you can get to a hospital, or something."

"Or something," he agreed, smirking. John figured he was better off not pushing for details. The healthcare system here was beyond broken.

He got up, groaning a bit less than the first time, and wiped his hands on his coat. He used the cloth to try to wipe the goop out of his hair. It was green. Not blood then, at least. Standing in the aisle, unsure of how to proceed, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He felt that disorienting gaze on him again, seeing but unseeing, and his heart pounded in his chest again.

The blind man stood, adjusting the snug black shirt he wore. He smirked again and held a hand out. John reached out and took it.

"Help a poor blind man to the door, would you?"

John snorted. "You don't need my help."

"No, but sometimes it's nice to pretend, right?"

Without another word, John led them towards the big arch that led to the entrance foyer. It was now or never. Normally he wasn't this hesitant, and he knew the guy wanted him on some level, but the whole _blind and bleeding_ thing made John feel a bit like he was taking advantage.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought. As they entered the foyer, he reached out and wrapped his arms around the man whose real name he still didn't know. At this point he didn't care. He froze, waiting for a reaction.

***

The man calling himself John had grabbed Matt, but he wasn't caught unaware. He'd heard the increase in heart-rate, felt the tension in his muscles right before it happened. For a moment, he fought with himself, unsure about how to proceed. There were plenty of things he didn't agree with most Catholics about, antiquated views about sexuality included. But there was a difference between a quick grapple in an alley and making out in a church.

And then John's lips and tongue were on his throat, and the war was lost. Matt sank slightly, still enclosed in John's arms. He groaned, reaching out for stability. John seemed to understand, guiding them to lean against one of the walls of the entrance alcove without ever removing his mouth from Matt's throat. He dragged his tongue up, sucking Matt's earlobe into his mouth, and Matt was barely able to hold himself up.

He brought one hand up to John's face, coaxing the man to meet his mouth. His tongue was as sharp and agile as it had been the first time in the alley. Matt's other hand found its way into John's great ridiculous coat. It felt like a trench coat. He really was playing up the whole 'bitter detective' thing. The thought made Matt smirk.

For a few moments, they indulged in simply kissing each other. Matt could feel stubble against his lips, feel the sting of teeth on his tongue, and he gave as good as he was getting. The kisses were getting hungrier, more desperate, and he gasped slightly as he felt a tell-tale bulge pressing against his thigh.

"You alright?" John pulled away, just enough to let a rush of cool air flood between them.

Matt took a deep breath, trying to ground himself. This whole situation was completely ridiculous. He should stop. He should _want_ to stop. But if he was being honest, he didn't. He pressed his hand against John's back, pulled them close together again.

"Sorry, yeah."

"We don't have to do this," John's voice was neutral, devoid of inflection. Like he was purposely trying to influence Matt. He appreciated that.

"No, but I'd like to." And he did. It was probably a terrible, terrible decision, but he did.

"Thank God," John mumbled, kissing Matt again. As he did, he dragged one hand down over Matt's stomach, fingers splaying as they dipped under his pants. He twitched, felt the rush of blood heading south, and tried to ignore it. But judging by the increase in John's pulse, he'd felt it too.

"Oh no." His voice echoed off of the high, vaulted ceiling and ornate woodwork. The familiar smell of frankincense tickled the back of his nose, as if to emphasise where they were. "I am not fucking you in a church," his voice dropped as he said the words, even though nobody else was around to hear them. He could feel heat blooming across his cheeks, but he couldn't tell if it was from arousal or embarrassment.

"It's empty. A dead relic." John sounded smug. Clearly he had no compunctions about it. In fact, he seemed completely amused by the whole thing. "Besides, who said you'd be the one doing the fucking?"

"It's still sanctified ground!" he hissed, ignoring the throb in his belly the words had caused. He couldn't believe he was having this argument. He also couldn't believe he was seriously considering dropping it in favour of being pinned against a wall by a near-stranger. A very compelling near-stranger.

He stood still, listening for sounds around him. All he could hear were the sounds of their breathing and their rapid pulses, the susurrus of their clothing, the sputter and crackle of the candles, and the soft creaks of an ancient building. John was right, the church was completely empty. Well, aside from the scuffle of a rodent or two that Matt was choosing to ignore.

As if he could tell what Matt was checking for, John laughed quietly. "I know the Padre here. The rectory's over across the yard, and he's got far too much faith in people. Not my first time setting up camp here."

"When you say that... you mean you've been in this church before, or you've tried to seduce a strange man in this church before?" Matt honestly wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

John chuckled again. It was a rough but pleasant sound. Matt was starting to like it. "The former. I have to admit, this particular development is a first, even for me."

That was something, at least.

With a thunk, Matt let his head fall back against the wooden wall of the entryway. If he were being honest, he'd already made up his mind to let this play out. He'd deal with the ramifications and repercussions later.

"I..." his voice wavered as he pulled John even closer, gasping as their bodies aligned in a way that felt both alien and familiar at once. "Don't stop..."

As soon as he'd said the words, he felt rough lips brush along his jaw line again, and then another rush of cold air and empty space in front of him, punctuated by a heavy thud as John dropped to his knees. Matt trembled slightly, leaning against the wall. He reached out, hands fumbling in mid-air for a moment before finding John's head and shoulder. Without thinking, he ran his fingers through that mess of hair again. There was a textural shift about an inch in, and Matt wondered if he bleached it or something. The thought amused him.

He was torn out of his reverie as he felt John tugging his pants down. A fresh wave of heat -- fuelled by shame and desire both -- ran through his body, knowing John could clearly see how aroused he was at this point.

If the air in the entryway had felt cool before, it was nothing compared to the shock of it now that he was completely exposed. He tightened his fingers instinctively in John's hair and felt John pull back slightly, like he was hesitating again. Matt frowned.

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm blind, not made of glass. If I need you to stop, I'll say so."

Apparently that was all the encouragement he needed, because the next thing Matt knew he was halfway down the man's throat. He cried out, more in shock than anything, and gripped his hair again. It only seemed to spur him on, because he seemed to be redoubling his efforts. His mouth was hot and wet and utterly, utterly glorious. And if the man's tongue had been sharp and clever earlier, it was nothing compared to now.

Matt's legs trembled as he braced himself against the wall, trying his best to hold still and not force himself down John's throat. As he shifted, a carving on the wooden panel dug into his shoulder, like it was trying to remind him where he was. At this point, though, he was well beyond caring. He felt John's thumb stroking his hip bone, fingers curling around his leg and pulling, encouraging him. Tentatively, Matt thrust his hips. That was clearly what John wanted, because he moaned, and it sent vibrations all the way through Matt's body. He bit back a groan, feeling himself sliding across John's tongue. 

John clearly knew what he was doing. If he kept at it like this,  
Matt wasn't going to last much longer. The thought would have been embarrassing if he'd had an ounce of shame left in him. John swallowed, humming again, and Matt nearly doubled over. He cried out, his voice echoing in the empty hall. He could feel the tension building up, low in his abdomen, and at the last second he managed to hold himself still and tap John's shoulder frantically. He hoped the signal was clear enough.

It must have been, because rather than pull back, John redoubled his efforts. If Matt hadn't known better, he'd have said the man had a forked tongue. A demon, sent from his own personal Hell, to seduce him and drag him down. Further, anyway, because he was fairly certain he'd been headed in that direction before any of this started.

He felt the beginnings of his orgasm ripple through his body and inadvertently tightened his fingers in John's hair. John groaned again, fluttering his tongue against Matt's shaft, and all was lost. He bit back a shout as the climax overwhelmed him, sparks running across his overheated skin, a rubber band snapping inside of him. He felt himself spilling down John's throat, but the man seemed to be encouraging it, sucking harder to coax every last drop out of him.

His knees trembled, threatening to give out. John seemed to sense it, and he pulled back slowly. Matt shuddered as his skin was exposed to the cool air, but before he had a chance to do anything about it John was pulling his pants up carefully. He grabbed Matt's hips, lowering him gently to the ground. 

It felt a bit ridiculous, really. He could chase crooks across rooftops, take down thieves in an alley, but one orgasm from a strange man with a compelling voice and he was ready to collapse.

He settled against the wall, taking a moment to catch his breath. He could hear John next to him, his breath dry and ragged, and his heart still pounding furiously. The thought that he should probably reciprocate crossed his mind, but he wasn't sure how to go about it. He heard John shift, felt him lean against the wall and press their legs together gently.

Tentatively, Matt reached out and put a hand on John's thigh. Without thinking, he ran his thumb over the fabric. Fairly sturdy, but too soft to be denim. Canvas, khakis or something. He shifted his hand, letting his fingertips graze over the front of John's pants. He gasped slightly at the bulge there. Definitely still aroused, then.

He felt a gentle weight around his wrist, rough fingers circling it as if to stop him.

"You don't have to do anything," John's voice was breathy and a bit needy, but determined.

Matt shook his head and turned to look at what he hoped was John's face. "I _want_ to," and he did. He hated leaving anyone hanging, especially someone as generous and entertaining. He tugged his hand free and palmed John's erection through the thin layers of fabric.

John groaned, and the sound was utterly gratifying. "In that case I'm sure as fuck not going to stop you," he muttered, shifting slightly.

Matt managed to get John's pants undone. The angle would have been awkward even for someone who could see what they were doing, but he persevered. He ghosted his fingertips across the fabric underneath. Loose cotton, boxers then, and there was already a substantial damp spot at the front of them. He rolled his thumb over it and was rewarded with the sound of John's heart thudding even faster.

He fumbled a bit, trying to strip John properly, and felt the man chuckling next to him.

"Allow me," his voice was wry, but the effect was marred by how desperate he sounded. Matt heard him rustling and fidgeting briefly before settling down. He reached out again, feeling bare skin under his fingertips. The skin beneath his hand was soft and almost impossibly warm. He felt the curve of a hip bone; let his fingers splay out over it until they met a trail of hair that was somehow soft and coarse all at once. He followed it down, his fingers brushing against velvety smooth skin and a slick drop of pre-come.

He swallowed thickly, shifting his weight, and wrapped his hand around the heavy heat of John's erection. John groaned softly, bringing his hips up to meet Matt's hand. That was good then. His breathing hitched every time Matt stroked, and his heart pounded almost erratically. Matt could feel the heat pouring off him in waves, and he wondered briefly if John had bothered to take that damned coat off. The thought struck him as completely absurd and he choked off a laugh before it could get inappropriate or give John the wrong idea.

He was incredibly patient, breathing as steadily as he could, giving Matt time to adjust. It would almost have been annoying, if it hadn't been so strangely sweet. But Matt was determined to prove he wasn't breakable, wasn't fragile. Smirking, he tightened his grip and picked up the pace, rolling the palm of his hand over the slick head on every up-stroke.

John gasped and cursed, and Matt could feel the tension in his muscles as he tried to hold still. He sought out the pulse point in John's throat, finding it unerringly with his lips and tongue. He kissed and nipped and sucked, before whispering slowly.

"Go on then, move."

With a sharp cry, John rolled his hips, thrusting himself through the tight grasp of Matt's hand. Matt alternated his speed, pulling hard and fast for a few strokes before slowing down. He didn't have a huge frame of reference for this sort of thing, but he knew what he liked, and he tried to replicate it. He could hear John's heart pounding furiously in his chest, which led him to believe John was enjoying it.

John was whispering raggedly under his breath, a string of words that should have made Matt blush. Instead, they just spurred him on. He was desperate to hear John's orgasm, to feel it under his hand.

He felt the building tension in John's body, his abdomen growing tight as he arched up to meet Matt's hand. Matt kept stroking, pulling, running his thumb around the crown.

"Fuck... yeah..." John's words were half-uttered, interspersed with gasps and moans, and Matt heard the moment where his pulse thudded, stopped, and picked up again. Felt the moment where John's shaft got impossibly harder for a fraction of a second before it started twitching, spilling liquid heat across his hand.

Matt kept stroking, coaxing him through the end of it, slowing his pace until he was nearly still. John's heart-rate slowed and steadied, his breathing evened out, and they both slumped back against the wall.

Fumbling for something to clean them off with, Matt pulled his blindfold from his pocket. Shrugging, he wiped his hand down and placed it in the general vicinity of John's abdomen. They both chuckled quietly.

***

"Alright there... Mike?" John rolled the name around on his tongue, and it still felt wrong. He stared at the man's profile, all flushed and dewy, his lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks in the semi-darkness.

"Fine, yeah. And it's Matt..." his voice was gentle and amused. John cocked his head and stared at him, waiting for him to continue his thought. "You hesitated there, like you knew it wasn't my name. My name is Matt Murdock."

"Nice to meet you, Matt. I'm John Constantine," John said again, an echo of their earlier conversation in the alley.

"Wait, so that is actually your name?" He grinned. John felt like he should have been annoyed, but he laughed instead. 

"At least my last name's not Smith."

The conversation came to another lull, leaving them in a silence that was not the least bit awkward. John shifted, stretching his legs out in front of him. He was dying for a cigarette, but he settled for flicking his lighter open over and over. As he did, he could see as small smile playing across Matt's lips.

"I suppose this is where we go off in our separate directions and never see each other again then, yeah?"

"Well, I can guarantee I'll never see you, but..." Matt said dryly, and John winced again.

"Apologies. You know what I meant."

"Doesn't mean it's not fun teasing you about it. But..." Matt looked sad for a moment. John found he didn't like it at all. "I'm not looking for--" He held up one hand and flapped it vaguely between them.

John cut him off, reaching out and taking Matt's hand gently in his. "No, nor am I. But fucked if it wasn't fun, yeah?" He squeezed Matt's hand, smiling when he squeezed back.

"Who knows, maybe we'll cross paths?"

John nodded without thinking and caught himself. "Maybe," he agreed but he could read the look on Matt's face. Neither of them expected to ever see each other again, and they were both okay with that.

With a groan, he stood, shaking his head to try to clear it. He straightened himself up, did up his trousers, and held a hand out to Matt, who was still sitting on the floor. He rolled his eyes at himself for the gesture.

"You need a hand?" he asked, almost nervously. The man was clearly far more capable and competent than he let on, and John wasn't entirely sure how he'd take the offer.

Thankfully, Matt smiled wryly and nodded. He held his hand out, slightly to John's side, and John shifted to grab it. He stood solid, counterbalancing as Matt got up and dusted himself off.

"Point me towards the door?" he asked. John got the impression he was doing it for John's benefit, but he did so anyway. Together, they stepped out into the noise and light that was New York at midnight. John turned to say goodbye one last time, but Matt had already vanished.

Sighing, he lit a cigarette and stepped out into the street.


End file.
